


Your Body Is A Map I Know Every Inch Of

by zaldrizzes88



Series: Destroy My Heart and Absorb My Soul [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dirty Talk, Eye Sex, F/M, Groping, Hair-pulling, Hand & Finger Kink, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaldrizzes88/pseuds/zaldrizzes88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: A Catalogue of All The Times A Part of Petyr Has Put Sansa In A Sticky Situation</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eyes

I. " _Shut my eyes to the song that plays"_

Sansa has a hard time focusing at breakfast. **_No_** , she thinks with a sigh, **_I have a hard time focusing around him_**. Petyr watches. That’s what he does, how he’s survived so long in this ruthless game of thrones. His awareness, his knowledge, is power and she’s learning. Slowly. His gaze is a mask but lately its cracks are showing.

  
\-----------

  
Supper last night was an affair, hosted for the Royce’s. Sansa was playing the consummate daughter and host. She was _Alayne_ – demure in her lowborn status and yielding like a perfect daughter to her father. Randa was brash and bold – a stark contrast – and her favor that night rested on Petyr. Every smile, every laugh, every roll of her shoulders and dip of her chest was for him. And he accepted the burden of it with ease, lips sliding into a Cheshire-cat smile and eyes warm. ** _It’s a game_** , Sansa reminded herself as a new gnawing bloomed in her stomach. A jagged, sharp knife that tasted of bitterness and flooded her eyes with green. And what’s a game if it’s not played?

Taking a breath (as Alayne, always Alayne), she turned to Lord Royce and smiled, blushing in a way that Petyr once told her could bring men to their knees. The game is simple once you know the players and Lord Royce was a pawn, easy to move and easy to sacrifice. She laughed at his joke, loud, clear and so unlike Alayne, a calculated move across the board. It was enough. Petyr looked up, eyes quizzical. **_Something funny, my sweet_** , he asked, pulling a sip from his wine. Alayne blushed – again – and ducked her head towards Lord Royce. The smile that greeted her was the smile of a man who had found favor. _Check_.

 ** _Your daughter was just appreciating my humor, Littlefinger_** , Royce rumbled, _**she has good taste**_. Sansa watched Petyr under hooded lids as his gaze hardened, taking another pull of wine. _**She takes after her father, my Lord…she knows what she wants**_ , Petyr drawled. The response was for Royce but his gaze was all for her. Eyes dilated, she stared at him and met his smirk with a timid smile and a blush all his own. The hunger in his eyes grew and he nodded slightly, turning back to Randa. With a shuddering breath, Alayne turned back to the game at hand, but the telltale wetness in between her legs made her realize he may have had her beat.

As they walked toward their chambers, Sansa trembled. Petyr was quiet, had been quiet, since the Royce’s gave their goodnights. Alayne had been bold – touching a soft hand to Lord Royce’s arm as she said her goodbye and he had seen. _**Of course he did**_ , she mused, _**he sees everything**_. Petyr’s eyes had hardened and the normal warmth was diluted by something Sansa couldn’t quite name. Want? Need? Frustration? Whatever it was it pulled at her core and she had let out a shaky breath, turning away to disguise it as a cough. Raising an eyebrow (and Sansa’s core temperature by 3 degrees), he took over, smoothing good nights and pleasant promises as the Royce’s took their leave and Petyr took her arm in his. He had remained quiet their whole walk and Sansa followed his lead, the image of his eyes playing over in her mind. He wanted her. She was sure of it. And the thought made her shiver and the spot between her legs wet. Lost in thought, she stumbled into Petyr as they stopped outside her chambers, the blush blooming again across her cheeks. He smiled, bigger and darker this time, raising an eyebrow as he steadied her, hands falling away to clasp behind his back. _**Than….Thank you, my lord**_ she murmured, eyes downcast. Petyr hummed, a hand under her chin as he pulled her eyes to meet his own. The warm gaze was gone, shattered into desire that poured into her and took her breath away. Sansa dug her nails into her palm to keep herself silent, eager to not give anything away. _**You were marvelous today, Alayne**_ , he purred, fingers cupping her face. Sansa let out a breath, ready for her move, but before she could respond, he dropped his hand, stepping away from her. _**Sweet dreams, sweetling**_ , he murmured and in a flash was gone.

Sansa shut her door with a soft moan, falling back against the wood with a thud. Her hands went to work, shedding the stays of her dress and grasping at her smallclothes. Her dress pooled at her feet as her hands moved between her legs. She was dripping, fingers sliding easily between her folds, as her desire peaked. Eyes shut, she saw him, his gaze hot and heated. The burning fire between her legs brought out a moan and she rode her fingers for pleasure, imagining him there, eyes ever watching. She wanted him undone, his gaze filled with need for her. To have him raptured, as if she was the sun. She needed him to feel as wanton as she did right now, as she _fucked_ herself with her hands. Her breath came in short gasps as she curled a finger deep, matching the come hither look of her daydreamed Petyr with a motion that sent liquid fire through her veins. Stars exploded behind her eyes as she keened quietly, flooding her hand with moisture and her lips with his name. _**Would he like watching her?**_ Sansa wondered, coming down from her pleasure. Flushed and trembling, she straightened, grabbing her nightclothes off her trunk and crawling into bed. Sated, she could feel sleep pulling at her, but the image of Petyr's dark eyes still haunted her periphery. _**Yes,**  _Sansa thinks, _**yes he would. Because it's all for him**_.

  
\-----------

  
 _ **Ahem…something wrong, my child**_? Petyr muses, and Sansa’s head snaps up. Reliving last night’s events had brought a very dark blush across her cheeks and chest, and a very inopportune damp spot in her smallclothes. _**N-….No father**_ , Sansa responds, hands fluttering in her lap as she tries to regulate her voice. It wouldn’t do for her to splay out like a wanton whore at breakfast. This was a long battle. Won with inches. _**I asked how you liked our little game last night.**_  Petyr plays the unassuming, calmly cutting at his breakfast. Sansa took her time, chewing slowly at her fruit. _**There’s an opportunity here**_ , she thinks. _**Game, my Lord?**_ , eyes on Petyr, voice strong but low. _Sansa’s_ voice…his favorite. He meets her stare and the heat is back, the same needy look battling for dominance with his smooth control.  _ **I rather liked it Father but I did find it a bit dull**. _ Petyr's eyes flash - approval, amusement, desire - and Sansa has to take another bite of melon for fear of humming in pleasure.  _ **Dull, perhaps** ,_ Petyr responds, and his voice is gravel in Sansa's ears. This is the real Petyr. Dark, seductive and hinting at something below the surface. _ **But we're just getting started, Sweetling**._

 


	2. Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr's voice offers Sansa a glimmer of hope, and a reason to stay in bed.

II. " _Don't you think that it's boring how people talk?"_

Sansa was frustrated. Since the Royce's dinner (and her undoing at her own hands that night), Petyr had been cautious. She could sense it even though he made a point of not avoiding her. He played the doting father flawlessly, but each touch, each glance was deliberate and paternal. The mask was in place and the cracks sealed tight.

She knew that something lurked below Petyr's perfect exterior. She had seen it in his eyes and heard it in his voice. **_Sweetling_** \- the affection murmured only for her. It had held such promise at the time. But this avoidance, this chasteness was eating away at her patience. Suppers with Petyr were fraught with frustration, with Sansa trying to toe the line and Petyr putting Alayne (always Alayne) back in her dutiful place. Nights were worse. Sansa tossed and turned, flushed with embarrassment over the need that gripped her. Need that made her chase pleasure with slick fingers and quiet cries. Sansa knew he desired her. What she didn't know was why Petyr didn't take what he wanted, like he had done with the Vale, with Lannister gold, with her risk and reputation. It was a conundrum.

After a week of fruitless meals, Sansa was tired of trying. Feigning sickness, she remained in her quarters, picking absentmindedly at her needlework while a fire warmed her chilled skin. Inside, she was molten heat. She didn't need to hear Petyr lecture Robyn for the umpteenth time, or listen to him give an update on the bannermen of the Vale. She wanted him to praise her in his rough voice, let the carefully chosen syllables wash across her flushed skin.  _"What would he say to me,"_ she wondered, _"if he knew our desires were one and the same?"_ Lost in thought, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a light rap sounded against her door. Wrapping her dressing gown tighter around her, she opened the door, expecting a maid or kitchen servant, only to be greeted by Petyr's passive face. _  
_

" _May I come in, my sweet?_ " Petyr drawled, back straight and eyes calm. Sansa had to bite back her retort, nodding and sliding open the door wider for him to come through. He paced slowly, observing her discarded needlework with an attentive gaze. "Father?" Sansa murmured, assuming Alayne's voice and Alayne's posture, shoulders dropped in an act of subjugation. He turned and regarded her slowly, taking in her transformation with a small smile. "Are you ill?" he questioned, stepping to face her. _Careful,_ Sansa thinks, thoughts churning.  _It wouldn't do to lie and say yes - it would only give cause to bring the maester_. Stepping forward, she grazed her abandoned chair's high back for support, fingers digging into the soft fabric. " _I...No, father. I'm fine,"_ she stuttered, blushing only slightly. Petyr's eyes remained on her face and she felt his gaze pulling back her layers, digging for the pieces she's hidden away. He turned his back, matching her stance and ran a single finger across the top of the opposite chair, exquisitely slow. " _Then why, my child,"_ finger paused, " _did you miss supper?_ " She gazed at him openly, a bit of Sansa escaping into her demeanor as she took in the fractured slivers of want sparkling in his eyes. His pupils dilated as he met her stare, all pretences of fatherly affection abandoned, coming to stand a few feet from her with clasped hands behind his back.  _Steady,_ Sansa reminds herself,  _if something is going to happen, I need to be the wolf, not the fumbling bastard girl_. The exchange happens rapidly, facades falling away as Sansa closed the distance between them to a whisper. Hoping beyond hope that the embargo on this untapped desire had been lifted.

" _I'm tired...._ "

" _Of what, Sweetling?_ "

" _Of being ignored._ "

Sansa is close enough to touch him but she waits. The game. They're still playing and she knows that for her to win, Petyr needs to make the first move. To show his cards, and let her keep her own close to her chest. So she stalls, with a tilted head and wide eyes, innocence blazing upwards through thick lashes. But Petyr's a smart man and he's played this game before. He skirts around the chair, crossing over and settling in the seat she had occupied, crossing his legs lazily. " _Ignored, my pet? But that's not how Lord Royce paints it."_ It is only then that Sansa realizes what has kept Petyr's hands behind his back - a scroll, seal broken, resting neatly in his palms. He motions towards the chair opposite him and unfurls the parchment slowly. Sansa trembles, dropping gracefully into the chair, hands clasped tightly together. " _He wrote, my Lord?"_ Sansa questions, watching as Petyr's eyes wander over the written words.  _"He did, my pet_   _and it paints such a pretty picture. Shall I share?"_ She knows he will tell her regardless, so she nods silently.

Petyr clears his throat, exaggerating for her benefit as he starts, " _Littlefinger, I greatly enjoyed your daughter's company at our visit."_ Sansa shifts in the chair, fidgeting with desire, eyes on Petyr's mouth. " _She is as sweet as a flower and so well behaved, even for being your bastard_ ,"he reads, a chuckle escaping his lips. " _Are you a flower, Sweetling? A rose for his garden?_ " Sansa shakes her head, spurred by the growing wetness pooling in her smallclothes. Her response pleases Petyr, and he regards her with hot eyes. " _I think you're right. You are much more like a fruit_ ," he growls, voice caressing Sansa's ears, " _Outside so strong, but inside so wet and tasty. Ripe for picking_." Sansa's hidden pearl pulses and it takes everything in her power not to groan with need. This is new territory, a dangerous advancement of their game. " _Look at you, Alayne. So wanton. Spread out like a prize. Your mouth is so becoming when you're needy,"_ he says, teasing her as he leans back in the chair, a stance of pure dominance. Sansa breathing is shaky and she knows she's failing to hide. " _Is this state all for him then? Your cunt dripping for his touch, his tongue. His cock, Sweetling?"_ Petyr questions, eyes dark.

" _Lo-Lord B-Baelish_ ," Sansa whispers, clasping her thighs tightly together to stop the warmth from spreading outward from her center. " _Tsk, Tsk my dear. We are beyond formalities now, I'd say. Who am I?_ " Petyr growls, and the vibration in his throat sends another wave of pleasure straight to Sansa's core. " _Pe-P-Petyr,_ " she gasps, trying and failing to cover her moan.  _"Very good, sweetling. Answer my question. Do you want him_?" Sansa knows what her choices are - say Yes, and it will stop. Petyr will become Littlefinger again and she, Alayne. Their dance over before it even starts. Say No, and there's a possibility. A chance. A sliver of opportunity for this to turn into what she wants and needs. She meets his eyes, gaze strong and uninhibited as her voice rings out, " _No, Petyr. I do not._ " Petyr smiles his predatory gaze, and it's clear she's chosen correctly. Sansa spreads her legs wider, chest heaving as she shudders, an invitation sent to the man across from her.

" _Now my Sweet, there's nothing I'd love more than to see you quivering under that dress_ ," Petyr says, eyes boring into her and flicking down to the junction between her legs. Sansa moans quietly, mouth parting at his words, and her hips fall open further than she thought possible, opening her core up. She can feel her wetness clinging to her folds. A lick of lips greets her movement, as Petyr runs a hand across his jaw. " _But we mustn't rush. I must be absolutely sure. Sure that you are not his. That you are my wolf, my Winter. My Sansa_." It's the closest he's come to admitting anything resembling desire and the roughness of his voice is like a vice, tightening her center and her chest. Her gaze has not left his, and the heat between them makes her squirm. She knows without a doubt that she is his, has been his since he took her in, rescued her from a life in the lion den. She would gladly give over everything to have him give her what she wants. But of course, patience is a virtue.

He stands quickly, and Sansa allows herself a moment to wash her gaze over his form. He is unfazed, no hints of desire or signs of anything in duress. She wants to curse him, make him pay for leaving her a sopping mess. Petyr eyes her expectantly, and she realizes she is still sitting. Scrabbling to her feet, her knees buckle, weak from desire. Before she can hit the ground, strong arms encircle her waist, halting her fall. Petyr's touch burns, heat from his hands scalding her hips as she rests a palm against his chest. His gaze is pleasant, eyes sparkling as he rights her, hands lingering. " _Careful, Sansa_ ," he hums, the promise of desire just below the lilt of his voice. Sansa glances at him from under her lashes, hoping she looks becoming, hoping for more. But Petyr is ever careful, ever faithful to his promise. _No rushing_. Hands retreat as he steps away, whispering his good night as he slinks out of her door.

Sansa trembles, pushing the door closed. Turning, she blows out her candles and practically crawls into bed, using the bedsheets as a cover for her wandering fingers. She can still feel the stain of his hands on her hips, and she uses the memory to fuel her release. And as she soaks her fingers again (she's lost count by now how many times it's been), one thought slips into her mind.

_**Soon.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading :)) This one was tough for me to finish for some reason. Maybe because I'm better at writing the smut and not the build. I've outlined for 7 chapters total, so this one is a bit of a long one. I'm also toying around with the idea of writing a Petyr POV version as a companion fic.
> 
> Comments & reviews welcome - I'm new to the creative writing process and would greatly appreciate feedback


	3. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa can't quite forget the feeling of Petyr's hands on her skin. Petyr gives her a reason not to.

III. " _The shivers move down my shoulder blades in double time._ "

Sansa feels his hands imprinted on her hips for weeks. But just like last time, Petyr pulls away. His not-quite-avoiding calmness is back and her frustration is worse. She knows without a doubt that  _something_ is going to happen between them; Petyr has made it almost clear. But she would prefer it happen sooner, rather than this dragged out game of chess they seem to be playing. To speed it along, she's taken up residence in his chambers almost every evening. Using the excuse of warmer fires and pleasanter conversation, she regularly stays until her head is nodding and Petyr pushes her out the door with a smile. And yet, even with increased presence, he does not waver. He spends his time reading and writing letters, sharing tidbits of knowledge, of secrets she's sure, with her. His voice more often than not lulling her into relaxation. The roughness of it soothing only a sliver of the need that he's built inside her.

On one particular night, Sansa has had enough waiting. She stands, in her chambers, digging through her dressing trunk. She knows that she'll need something special to push Petyr out of this comfort, this normalcy, and as her hands brush the soft fabric, Sansa knows this might be enough. The dress is Tully blue, laced with a hint of Stark in the sleeves and bodice, slivers of grey barely noticeable without light. It's tight, almost uncomfortably, but Sansa knows it puts her chest and waist at an advantage. An advantage she'll greatly need if her plan is to succeed. She plaits her hair loosely, almost undone but enough to show her neck. Barren of jewelry, she admires herself in the mirror.  _I am made in his image_ , she thinks, smiling slightly at the woman (no longer that simpering girl in Kings Landing) staring back at her. Sansa takes a deep breath, pushing away and towards the door, slipping out silently.

She doesn't knock anymore. Petyr expects it, expects her part of this little ritual. As she enters the room, his back is to her, standing with palms flat on his desk, reading something intently. " _Hello father_ ", she says, voice Alayne's as she walks into the darkened room. Candles are placed sporadically but the fire is blazing, the warmth reaching her skin as she steps into its light. His head does not move, eyes remaining on his reading as he replies, " _Alayne. How are you this evening?"_   Sansa steps further into the light turning so she is illuminated against the fireplace, in clear line of his eyes if only he would notice. He's writing she realizes, hands moving quickly across the parchment. She's mesmerized for a moment, watching Petyr's fingers flex and move; the heat of the fire, and of  _him_ flushing her skin. Her silence rouses him and he looks up, face quizzical. "Alayne?," the name a clear question on his lips. She meets his eyes, blushing as she takes a step forward to reply, "I'm well, father. And how are you?" Her voice is stronger now, the wolf creeping in and Petyr knows, a smirk tugging up the ends of his lips. Petyr puts the nib down, folding away the letter and secreting it away. "I'm quite well, my sweet. And might I say you look absolutely becoming this evening." She smiles softly, using her hands to fluff her dress, bending down slightly. The position puts her chest directly in Petyr's eyesight and she hopes he notices, not willing to break this ruse with a quick gaze. " _But what is the occasion, little Bird? We've spent many an evening together without such pretty wares."_ Petyr is using his Littlefinger voice, laced with a touch of malice. Sansa is ready for this, she's played this game too many times now. " _My lord..."_ she pauses, straightening up back to her full height, the power rushing through her veins.

" _My lord? Clearly this can't mean me, my sweet. Is this for Royce, this pretty ensemble. Have you dressed all for him?"_ Petyr is teasing her now and Sansa knows it, but it's also the closest he's come to slipping up in weeks. She shakes her head, shoving the hint of embarrassment she can feel threatening to spill into her gaze by responding quickly, " _No, Lord Baelish. It is not for him._ " Petyr moves closer, still not close enough to touch; his gaze is hot and Sansa feels frozen in place.  _"Who is it for then, sweetling?"_ sliding around her in a circle, eyes devouring her in the firelight.Sansa bites her lip and sighs, hoping it's enough. But she should know better, because Petyr never wants what's enough. He wants  _everything_. His perimeter ends and he stops in front of her, gaze never leaving her own.  _"Tell me....Sansa,"_ growling her name into two rough syllables. She knows she has to be confident, be absolutely clear in her meaning and desire for this to work. She needs to be the wolf, taking what she wants. " _It's for you, Petyr,"_ she says, stepping towards him slightly and closing off his space. She swears she can hear him hum, and she nearly moans when he moves even closer, his breath warm on her face.  _  
_

" _Tell me what you want."_

" _Touch me, Petyr."_

She stutters his name, her breath coming in quick bursts with the closeness of their bodies. But it is enough this time, one of Petyr's hands rising to cup her face. His fingers are warm against her skin; the roughness burning her jaw as he slides his hand down to her neck. Sansa's close enough to lean her forehead against his own but she knows this is his game, his chance to control the outcome. She's content to just feel. The hand on her neck shifts back, fingertips grazing her hairline. Another hand snakes around her hips, pulling her tighter against him. The connection between them is electric and Sansa hushes a moan with a bite to her lip, eyes hooded. " _Gods, Sansa_ ," Petyr murmurs against her ear, " _You have no idea what you do to a man_." Sansa wants to laugh, wants to launch herself at him, ripping his doublet until there's scratches littering his skin and his hands are buried in his hair. He has to know what he's done to her, turning her into a needy mess over the past weeks. But instead, she shuffles back an inch, hands moving into her hair to pull at the pins, shaking down her long hair until it flows, tousled against her back. Petyr's stare is dark and both hands reach for her, grasping her waist tightly and pulling her against him harshly. Sansa's breath leaves her in a gasp, cheeks red as she gazes up at Petyr, mouth parted. But Petyr doesn't let her lead, hands winding into her long hair and pulling lightly, earning another gasp. Sansa gives in, letting his grasp guide her, neck arching with each caress. He noses against her throat, inhaling her scent as his head moves to her ear, breath warming the shell. " _Against my desk. Now."_

The command is growled and Sansa quivers, just now aware of the wetness between her legs. He's drenched her with a few touches and words. Petyr's hands slide out of her hair as she pulls away, walking with unsteady feet until her hands brush the edge of the desk. Petyr has followed, hands immediately on her hips, turning her possessively so her bottom bumps against the desk top. Using one hand to keep her grounded, the other travels, starting at her jaw. Sansa's lips are parted, her breathing heavy as he skirts a thumb against her lower lip. The flesh reddens underneath his touch, but he doesn't linger, moving back into her hair. A light tug and he's moving again, down her shoulders to her waist, caresses alternating between light and hard. Sansa realizes they've never allowed this - this uninhibited touch and exploration - and she moves her own hands to wrap around Petyr's neck. His skin is warm against her soft fingers, and she wishes desperately that his doublet was gone, eager to feel herself pressed against his chest. Lost in thought, she barely notices when Petyr pulls his hands away from her body. She huffs without a thought, frustration in her voice as Petyr laughs, genuine and loud.  _"So needy, Little Bird,"_ he says, and Sansa can almost see something that looks like affection ghosting across his face. She smiles, and nods, not afraid to take what he will give her. Hips bump hers and she falls back on the desk, squirming a little until she sits, legs dangling. Petyr's eyes greet her with approval and he moves back into her, hands moving towards her chest.

He thumbs her scalloped lace collar, dipping his finger into the softness of her bosom, gaining a sigh. " _Please, Petyr,"_ Sansa whimpers, blue eyes locked with Petyr's black. He makes a noise of agreement, hands dropping to grasp the globed flesh, first the right, then the left. Sansa remains vocal, tiny gasps and moans escaping her lips as her nipples respond into hardened nubs. Petyr's fingers never stop, rubbing and pinching her through the fabric of her dress. Sansa shuts her eyes, riding the pleasure that slides down her back into her core, practically grinding into his hands. And as always, it's not enough.  _"More,_ " Sansa stutters, arching into him. Petyr's hands travel lower, across her stomach, the fabric tight against her. He grasps her hips hard, a mirror of the heat from their loaded conversation from nights passed and Sansa moves a hand from his neck to ruck at her skirts, pulling at the fabric, desperate.  _"Sh, sh sh....Sweetling,"_ Petyr whispers, a hand stilling her movements. His fingers tease against her leg, sliding up her thigh, warm and smooth. Sansa lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, fingers digging into his scalp. He grunts at her movement, hand now flush against her inner thigh. Sansa can feel her center spasming, trying to draw his touch nearer, wetness littering her skin. " _Petyr,"_ she moans, mouth open in what she imagines is only pure lust. Petyr smiles, her smile, dark, twisted and full of want. " _Good girl,"_ he murmurs, sliding one finger against her core, up and down slowly. Sansa keens, the noise high and breathy, unlike anything she's ever made in her bed under the cloak of darkness. Petyr's hand stalls, keeping pressure against her for a second, until he shudders, both hands grasping her face. Before Sansa can blink, his mouth is on hers, hands buried in her hair.

The kiss is hard, desperate and much to Sansa's dismay, only lasts a second. With strong hands, Petyr pushes her away and is across the room in a flash, a hand smoothing his hair. Sansa, on the other hand, is wrecked. Lips stinging, chest heaving, her dress rumpled and pulled up to her thighs as her core pulses with pleasure. She watches him, catching her breath. " _It's late, my sweet. And well past your bedtime,"_ he says, Littlefinger voice strong and clear. Sansa knows better to argue, better than to throw herself at him. The moment is gone, the opportunity lost. This hand is over. Standing, she smooths down her skirts, regulating her breathing as she moves towards the door. He keeps his back to her, and she knows she'll get nothing else from him tonight, not even a good night. Hands on the door, she pushes, sliding out into the hall silently. And as she closes the door, she swears she can hear him murmur:  
  
 ** _Slow and steady._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inching closer to smut territory! I've tried to include a hint of what the following chapter will look like for each of these so far. Up next - lots of kissing :D
> 
> The chapters keep getting longer - I swore I wasn't going to have too much besides smut but I think all the build up is working for them.
> 
> I've been blown away by all the nice comments and support on this fic. I love writing our creepyship and hope you enjoy the continued saga of PetyrxSansa ridiculous tension time.
> 
> Comments and reviews appreciated :D


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